


Sacellum

by Alethia



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: F/M, Lancelot Pushes, M/M, Manipulation, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-07
Updated: 2004-08-07
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:45:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I know you’re there.” A pause in sound, if not movement. “I can feel your eyes on me.” The unspoken ‘as I have for some time’ rang through the air as clear as the woman’s moans, as clear as the ever-present mocking in the voice of his dearest friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacellum

**Author's Note:**

> Sacellum: the regimental shrine. Originally posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/86921.html).

Skin slick and bodies in motion, dim light making the whole thing seem hazy, like his eyes couldn’t be showing reality. Or maybe that was his rational mind, cutting in with just _what_ they were doing and _where_ they were doing it.

The who came later—Lancelot he would know anywhere, even if his dark curls were matted, almost invisible in the darkness. The woman looked vaguely familiar, the foggy disbelief in his mind clearing for a bit, telling him she was the one earlier. The one who’d smiled at him and swayed her hips invitingly.

She was the one Lancelot had been eyeing, dark glint a warning that neither woman nor Woad ever heeded.

Arthur remembered long black hair and eyes the color of the forest, dusky but still inviting. It was a good thing he could recall because here, now, they were pools of nothing. He could see her hair clenched in Lancelot’s fist well enough, but no light reflected in her eyes, vacant.

No matter because it was her mouth that captured all attention, rubicund lips flushed with youth and Lancelot’s attention, parting on a silent moan as he thrust into her, repetitive, smooth, muscles flexing all along his back, bunching and stretching rhythmically. And it was—odd. He’d never seen Lancelot doing this, from this angle, and Arthur should probably feel more…something about that.

But he didn’t.

It was wholly possible he was still reeling from shock, from wandering into the sacellum on a question only to find _this_.

An aureate reflection winked at him from the corner of his eye and Arthur turned to look, still half-hidden in the shadows of the doorway. He faced fully the labarum, its holy gold mocking the scene.

The sibilant cry torn from the woman’s lips—giving obscene voice to base pleasure—slid against Arthur, pressing close, intimate, beckoning to him. A dry, raspy laugh filled the absence as Lancelot luxuriated in the act, still moving within her, head bent to bite at nipples as the woman mewled and bucked beneath him.

Earthly gold of skin at war with heavenly gold of God and Arthur didn’t know where to go, didn’t know how to approach this. Couldn’t grasp the magnitude of what Lancelot did and perhaps didn’t want to.

He turned to slip away, to steal through the comforting shadows of the night as if _he_ were the one committing a wrong. It was no matter. Something in him didn’t want to confront this and Lancelot wouldn’t know it, besides.

“I know you’re there.” A pause in sound, if not movement. “I can feel your eyes on me.” The unspoken ‘as I have for some time’ rang through the air as clear as the woman’s moans, as clear as the ever-present mocking in the voice of his dearest friend.

And Lancelot’s voice stayed him, drugged him, pulled his attention back to the carefully controlled stage, the woman incoherent, unaware of Arthur’s presence, of anything but Lancelot filling her, making her writhe in a room dedicated to their most important beliefs.

Lancelot turned his head, eyes catching the light as he looked into Arthur’s shadows, grinning with delight at what he saw, never ceasing his motion, never slipping for a moment.

“Like to watch?” Invitation or insinuation? Arthur didn’t know, couldn’t begin to guess.

Thought that might have been intentional with how Lancelot’s smile widened before he turned back to his current warm body, hand disappearing from view, though Arthur could guess at the activity in which it partook. The woman gasped and arched, shaking, her noises filling the usually tranquil room.

A sympathetic tremor shook Lancelot’s body, pained stillness negating previous motion, no sound from his lips, but tension in his muscles loud enough.

Arthur—still didn’t know how to respond. Lancelot knew he was there, yet did not stop, did not even pretend at shame, not that he ever had. Perhaps that explained it, then. Just another example of Lancelot flaunting unabashed, wanton behavior and succeeding in rejecting both rules and respect.

If that was his plan…it worked remarkably well. Arthur would not punish…this. He hardly knew how to _explain_ this.

Pleasure sought and found, both rested limply, until the woman turned and spied him in the doorway, eyes widening at his presence. Quick looks at both men and she was gathering her clothes, sending Arthur a regretful glance, glazed and hopeful and offering an understanding he could not comprehend. She stole by him, smelling of sweat and sex and dirt and Lancelot’s musk.

Arthur barely acknowledged her as she pressed close, eyes still riveted on Lancelot, slumped in the middle of the floor and looking at the standards—signa, vexilla stored around the room—ignoring Arthur. Or drunk on pleasure’s shadow.

Again he turned to take his leave, not wanting to know what Lancelot would say. And again he was stopped by that damnable voice.

“Leaving so soon?” Mild and distantly amused, like Lancelot had perfect control of the situation, like he wasn’t sprawled naked in the presence of their holiest.

Arthur ignored the goad. “Where is the guard?”

Lancelot snorted, rolling over and grasping the flagon of wine Arthur had not noticed. He turned back and saluted Arthur, still mocking. “I dismissed him.” 

He would have to check the hospital after this. Hopefully the man wasn’t hurt too badly.

Lancelot tsked, reading his face too easily. “You brood too much. He’s fine. I barely touched him.”

He might have to check the cemetery.

Lancelot sprawled back, stretching out, head pillowed on one hand, flagon in the other, completely uncaring about his lack of clothing, sweat and the remains of the woman dimly shining, taunting.

He snorted again. “Arthur, Arthur. Condemning me in your head?”

“That is not my place, Lancelot.”

“No, it is his.” Gestured up to the labarum, earthly representation of a master Lancelot did not recognize. “So your God resides on a piece of cloth?”

“Lancelot…” Didn’t know what he was to say. Saved from foolishness when Lancelot spoke again.

“What? That’s why your horror, is it not? Or was it the woman?” Deceptively glassy eyes raking him over and Lancelot grinned impishly. “You weren’t going to sate her. I did what any honorable knight would do for a woman in need.”

“Honorable?” Arthur didn’t know from where the decision to ask that had come. An involuntary reaction. He still could not quite believe that Lancelot had decided to take some woman here, underneath the representation of God.

Ah. Was that it, then? A deliberate insult to Arthur?

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

Lancelot had turned his attention away, pulling up trousers, but not bothering with tunic, doing his best to brush the dirt off. Smiling as if well-pleased with himself.

A controlled situation, indeed. Lancelot had _planned_ this.

“How did you know I’d come?”

He turned attention back to Arthur, though Arthur had the feeling he’d never lost it. “Your diligence. Your _duty_.” From others it would have been praise. On Lancelot’s lips an insult.

Arthur didn’t react, merely watched as Lancelot finally picked himself up, light illuminating him more fully. He couldn’t help the glance that swept along finely cut curves, flat planes, stinging scars a reminder of too long spent in battle at too young.

“Like what you see? I can assure you, she did.” Gruff voice and a deliberate provocation, but for what purpose Arthur couldn’t divine. And how was it possible for Lancelot to seem more naked with his trousers _on_? 

“Yes, she was rather vocal about it.” A hint of recrimination in his voice and Arthur winced at it, didn’t want to start a fight, even if he had due cause. 

That apparently appealed to Lancelot’s pride and he smirked, like he enjoyed that Arthur _knew_ it, had seen his prowess with women. Arthur was astute enough to know why; he’d seen the looks with which Lancelot favored him, understood their meaning.

Played at ignorance, though he did not know for how long Lancelot would allow it.

Lancelot stepped closer to him, shadows deepening around his face, masking him in their protective cloak. “Why are you not out with your knights, Arthur?”

“You know why.”

“Do I?” Innocence there none would believe and an unexpected surge of anger swept through him.

“Yes, you very well do. A _wonder_ I showed up tonight, at precisely the same hour that you were here, entertaining.”

The shifting shadows indicated that a hint of a smile played at those lips, and Arthur felt suddenly chilled at how well Lancelot was manipulating him. How effortlessly.

“Came to check the armamentarium, did you? Nasty things, those rumors.” Mournful shake of the head and dark humor laced through his tone. Arthur hated how part of him was distantly amused by all this. Better to focus on that than the alternative.

“And it’s impossible to confirm their source,” he agreed. “But _this_ is a bit much.”

Lancelot smiled again and moved closer still. “Do I offend a man who died hundreds of years ago? Is _that_ why you’re itching under your skin?”

“This is a holy place. You knowingly defile it.”

“It is a box full of images on sticks. It is dust. It is the living who matter.”

Arthur sucked in a breath. “I know it.”

“Do you? Why aren’t you with your knights, Arthur?”

“Because I am here. With you.”

The darkness around them seemed pleased, as if Lancelot’s thoughts slipped out, became known yet still intangible.

Lancelot stepped forward again, into Arthur’s space, pressing him against the edge of the doorway. He leaned in, painting small licks across Arthur’s jaw, forcing his head back. Warmth blanketed him and he could not stop his hands from touching, heat of palms against an even hotter chest, feeling the shudder his fingers pried from Lancelot.

Arthur caught his breath on a gasp when Lancelot bit him, was swallowed into a kiss the next moment, shocking fire behind it, barely leashed violence. He responded just as forcefully, one hand pulling that curly head closer and the other tracing over sleek muscles in a deceptively thin chest.

He pushed Lancelot away just as suddenly, breathing in his control and stiffening with it.

“I was wondering when you would remember,” Lancelot said, bitterly. He tugged on his tunic and gathered his sword, flagon. Crossed to him again but did not attempt anything more.

Arthur did not know what to say, did not expect his reaction to match everything he had seen in Lancelot. Did not expect to forget himself so, allow himself that in this place.

Lancelot looked him up and down, faint smile there again, as if he’d learned something useful. “Let’s go, then. I’m sure Galahad is making himself the fool. A shame to miss it.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. Lancelot was not known for his patience. Or for so easily giving up.

A wicked grin spread slowly, like the shifting of the tides and just as inexorable, heat sparking in dark eyes. “Don’t fret, Arthur. Once you leave and have a bit of drink we’ll revisit this. With much more _satisfying_ results.” He passed through the door, leaning in and nuzzling a bit on his way, the assurance in that statement stunning.

Not that he could give in, of course. “So sure, are you?” he asked, following Lancelot out, cool air a caress after the cloying heat and scent of the room.

Lancelot turned, a positively gleeful grin relaxing his features, making the boy apparent under the man. “I am.”

And how _did_ one argue with absolute certitude?

Arthur wasn’t even going to try.

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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